


When Words Fail Me

by ladysassafrass



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cross-country Road Trip, Explicit Language, Gandalf is a crafty little fuck, I'd say long but everything i write is too freakin' long, Literally have no idea where this came from, M/M, STAY TUNED FOR A FUTURE (BETTER) VERSION OF THIS STORY, THANK YOU FOR THE SUPPORT, THIS STORY IS NOT, THIS WORK IS DEAD, always-a-girl Ori, fem!Balin, ruthless businessman!Thorin, writer!Bilbo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2017-12-09 01:40:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladysassafrass/pseuds/ladysassafrass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo is a writer; not a great one, but he lives comfortably enough in a cozy house in Massachusetts, where the neighbors gossip over tea and mow their little green lawns and nothing unexpected ever happens.<br/>That is, until Bilbo runs into (literally) a batty old man at the grocery store, bringing a whole world of trouble and excitement - and a dark, handsome heir to a mining company - to his once-respectable front door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**It was a dark and stormy night.**

_Really? Really, Bilbo Baggins, that's the best you can write? The most cliched opener since the Bible was written by...well, whoever wrote the goddamn Bible!_

He rubbed his hands dramatically over his face, leaning back in the oak desk chair until he was certainly about to fall to his death. Outside, a beautiful Saturday morning taunted him; for the first time in the months, the sun shone, the sky was a clear, cloudless blue and the temperature was actually decent (not a deceiving 55 degrees with wind-chill). He should be going for a walk, breathing in the fresh air; his most recent physical had sent Dr. Hamfast's eyebrows through the roof, mimicking his blood pressure levels, apparently. But here he was, stuffed indoors, bent over a three-year-old PC laptop that had a dent in the screen because he stubbornly  _refused_ to get another one, especially not some stupid AppleBook or whatever the hell those over-priced pieces-of-shit were. Not that money was an issue; he'd just rather not spend it on unnecessary things.

He flexed his fingers, brought the cappuccino cup to his lips (oh sweet Jesus, he loved caffeine as much as his arteries hated it), and began again.

**The night was cold and the wind howled-**

_Howled. Wow, wind howling; fucking brilliant description. What book _didn't_ you get that from?  _Click click delete delete dele-e-e-e-ete.__

**The night was cold as the man strode down the street with...**

_With what? Something symbolic, something deep - no fuck that, who do I think I am? Vonnegut? He was a bore anyway. Give the reader something exciting, hook 'em him, you are the fisherman and they are the trout and this is the bait, oh god, shut up shut up stupid stupid stupid._

A brown thrush warbled at his windowpane in the idyllic April air. He mimicked its little mocking tune, but it didn’t get the message. _Little bastard_. Another sip of cappuccino. He frowned at the computer screen and wondered why there wasn't an app that turned the jumble in your brain into the coherent, brilliant stories they were destined to be.

 **The night was cold as the man strode down the street, a key in his pocket and**   ** ~~murder?~~**  no **~~dark passion?~~ ** too Harlequin-y  **vengeance** fine....

 **The night was cold as the man strode down the street, a key in his pocket and**   **vengeance in his heart.**

Fuck it, it'll do. This deserves a break, and outside, morning was calling. Bilbo was out of a few things anyway so he laced up his sneakers, grabbed his wallet and keys and a small notebook (hey, you never knew when inspiration would stroll in like a rude, uninvited houseguest). He walked out the door, shut it, walked back in and picked up the crumpled grocery list he forgot, and left again.

But before closing the door, Bilbo peered into the dark, silent house behind him. It was always quiet, but on occasion it felt just...empty. Something gripped inside his chest; Bilbo shook his head and blamed his goddamned heart. Or perhaps it was his lungs, back when he was young and in college and stupid enough to smoke a pack a day. For a while it was supposedly grief, to fill the space where his mother once held she died, five years after his father’s death. But eight years later, he was still smoking and smoking and it had nothing to do with his mother anymore.

That was a long time ago, though. He hadn't touched a cigarette in years, but occasionally he got the urge. Like right now. Like right this goddamned minute.

_Fuck._

He pulled in his jacket and sniffed as a breeze suddenly picked up. Fuckin’ New England weather. He made a mental note to pick up tissues. And a pack of nicotin patches.

_Shit shit shit shit…_

* * *

Brandybuck Market was in as crappy shape as ever; but never would Bilbo dare tell that to old Gorbadoc, whose wife ran the pharmacy in the back and was his mother’s sister. In fact, it wasn’t that bad; only half the fruit was unripe and green, (shipped fresh from the freezers of Monsanto, without a goddamn doubt), and the bagels in the bakery section were only two days old, but never could he say that the mart didn’t have what he needed, in some form or other.

_Milk (organic): check_  
 _Frozen berries for jam: not organic, but check_  
 _3 cans of tuna: check_  
 _Bottle of Fanta: check_  
 _More pencils: wasn’t on the list originally, but now check_  
 _Toilet paper (not the cheap kind this time that chafed his ass into oblivion): check_  
 _Nicotine patches: need to ask Mirabella about those-_

“Look, it’s Dildo Faggins!”

 _Oh shit._ He froze. Behind him stood a pack of sneering teenage boys. _Oh shit, not good. Not good at all._ His heart pounded, his mind was racing, his palms greased themselves with sweat. But why? Because of three little hooligans mocked his name? It was a common thing for people (read: assholes) to call him, and most of them came up with it on their own; just because it was his nickname in college doesn’t mean that they were goin-

“Oy!” barked a gruff, salt-and-pepper haired man. “No loiterin’ and no disturbin’ me customers! Now git!” Gorbadoc Brandybuck glared at the three youths, who scoffed back at him before strutting out of the stores like a trio of peacocks.

Bilbo still felt sick even after they left. _Goddammit, I need a smoke. No no no, stop it stop it._

“Ya all right, Baggins?” Gorbadoc looked to Bilbo now with a gruff look of concern, like a Scottish pitbull looking after his young.

“’M fine,” he mumbled. “Need some nicotine gum or patches though. Mirabella’s open yet?”

He knew the pharmacy was already open, and Gorbadoc knew he knew, but the old grocer pointed to the back anyway in stoic silence and Bilbo muttered out thanks to him before scurrying away.

Only to run smack into another customer, sending his basket to the floor with a crash.

“Oh fuck me, sorry, I’m so sorry.” His embarrassment was now doubled by his crass language so Bilbo scrambled to pick up his things and refused to meet the eye of whomever he so rudely barged into.

“What do you mean, may I ask?” replied an old, _gorgeous_ British voice. “Are you apologizing for not looking where you were going, nearly knocking over an old man, or are you distressed that you yourself have tumbled to the floor? Or are you proclaiming yourself to be in a sorry state?” _What the f…_ Before him stood an elderly man, no doubt in his late 70s and at least six feet tall. He bore a tattered gray fishing jacket and black old-man shoes, as well as an impressive full white beard as thin and long as he was tall.

Bilbo blinked. “Umm…” _I nearly bowled over British Santa_. “I’m not sure. E, all of the above?”

This made the old man chuckle. Bilbo then realized he was still crouching on the ground like a lunatic. No doubt all the other customers were staring. They were. _Shit shit shitty shit shit._ “Sorry. Again”

“The first two ‘sorrys’ were more than enough.” He peered kindly down upon Bilbo, but the tone had a bite to it. His body leaning against a curiously carved wooden cane.

Now Bilbo felt more flustered than ever as he stumbled to his feet. All he could think to say was ‘sorry’, but the old man might have smacked if he did again. _Fuck, I ran into_ sassy _British Santa_. “’M sorry,” he mumbled, rushing away from the man as his cheek flared and _oh fuck, I said it again, stupid stupid stupi-_

“Bilbo Baggins.”

He stopped in his tracks. The chef on South Farthing’s Homemade tomato sauce smiled unpityingly at him Bilbo turned around towards the tall, sassy British Santa with the beautiful voice.

“Tha-that’s me, yeah,” he said without thinking. _What on earth…_ “Do I know you?”

“Ah, have I longed to see the day where I met Belladonna Took’s son.” The old man broke into a gleeful grin and strode towards him with more liveliness than a man in his 40s. He shook Bilbo’s limp hand with equally uncommon vigor.

“You knew my mother then?” asked Bilbo. _Who the hell is this guy? What the devil is going on?_

The old man nodded with a bright smile. “Very well. A remarkable woman she was. It has been some decades since I last met her for tea,” he said wistfully, gazing up as if his mother were in the halogen lamps overhead. Batty _sassy British Santa, then._ “Ah!” cried the man all of a sudden. Bilbo jumped. “Where are my manners? My name is Gandalf.”

“Ah…nice to meet you _Gandalf._ ” _Never heard of him. And_ _weird name,_ _though I’m not one to talk. Goddamn parents’ fault. God forbid they have a son named Martin or Richard or something._ “I’m Bilbo.”

“I know,” reminded the old man.

“Oh yeah, sorry,” stuttered Bilbo, his cheeks turning beet-red again. _God above, smite me now before I die from my own damn awkwardness._

“Would you have the pleasure of joining me for coffee?” asked Gandalf with a soft, secret smile.

Bilbo’s mouth opened and closed like a flimsy nutcracker. “I, erm, well, actually-” _I could use a cup of coffee. No, no, stop that, not with batty old men you run into (literally) in the grocery store no matter_ how _beautiful their British accent is._

“You’re free? Perfect!” The old man beamed broadly, clapping a firm hand on a boggled Bilbo’s shoulder. “I’ll be across the street at that little shop, what’s it called, the Green-?”

“The Green Dragon?” mumbled Bilbo automatically. _No, no, shut up, you’re encouraging him-_

“Precisely!” The old man bobbed his head with a wink. “I will see you there.” And with that, he walked out the mart, leaving an absolutely baffled Bilbo frozen in shock.

_What…what the hell was that?_

* * *

“Well, now.” Gandalf took a sip from his flowered teacup, crossing his legs and leaning back comfortably against the faded velvet chair. “I’m sure you have a few questions.”

_Yeah, let’s start with what the hell am I doing here? Why am I not at home? Why the hell am I sitting in this dark, musty fortune-teller’s-parlor of a place drinking stale coffee with a goddamned batty old man who knows my name and claims to know my mother?_

“Well, to begin,” replied the old man to Bilbo’s non-existent question. “I knew your mother, oh nearly thirty years ago. You have her eyes, you know, and her nose. Your father’s hair though, and his chary demeanor.” _He knew my father too? And who the hell says things like ‘chary demeanor’?_ “I first met her when she strutted into my office one morning and all but demanded I build her a house.”

“You’re an architect, then?” Then it hit him. “You designed Bag End?”

“Willingly or not,” Gandalf chuckled into his tea. “I was in the middle of retiring my firm, but one does not easily say no to Belladonna Took.”

Bilbo couldn’t help but smile at that. _No indeed_. His mother was filled from top to toe with enough spunk and stubbornness to take over small nations if she ever fancied to.

“Which brings me to my final, and intended, order of business.” Gandalf became quite serious, leaning forward over the wooden table towards Bilbo. “I came to Hobbiton with the purpose of meeting you.”

Bilbo choked on his coffee and nearly spat all over the old man’s face. “ _Me_?” he replied with a hushed squeak. “Why on earth _me?_ ”

“Because if you have even a tenth of your mother’s gumption, you are exactly the man I need on a certain…enterprise.” His blue eyes flashed. “The substance of it is most secret, the purpose most noble, and the nature most dangerous. Please.” The old man waved his hand insistently as Bilbo was about to interrupt to ask what the hell he was smoking. “Let me speak until I am through. I am more than sure you are qualified for such an endeavor, but sadly I cannot divulge the details of it unless you agree.”

“What- I-” Bilbo spluttered, alternating between anger and utter bewilderment. “What the actual _fuck_ makes you think I’d join your-”

“Bilbo Baggins. 38, resident of 221 King’s Foil Lane (or ‘Bag End’), Hobbiton, MA.” The old man suddenly had an open leather folder in his hands and a pair of tortoise-shell glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Self-employed writer, freelance. B.A. in English literature. Mother, deceased, ovarian cancer. Father, deceased, liver cancer. No siblings. No living relatives. No pets. No criminal record. Good credit, no outstanding debt. Hasn’t left the country in fifteen years. Quit smoking at the age of 28, good for you.” Gandalf gave an approving nod. “And…last week you purchased a pound of espresso beans and _Downton Abbey,_ season 2 from Amazon.com.”

The folder snapped shut. Gandalf settled back on the velvet armchair and finished his tea, ignoring the agog stare of the pale, trembling man sitting across from him. They sat in silence for a long time; Gandalf humming quietly, Bilbo gaping shamelessly at him as his brain slowly remembered how to do that thing with the tongue and the words called _language_.

“Wha-what do you want? A-Are you CIA? FBI? MI6?”

Gandalf chuckled, sending shudders through Bilbo’s already rattled spine. “I’m naught but an old man, my dear Bilbo. An old man with an offer that I hope won’t be refused.” He hoisted himself to his feet with a sigh, grasping his cane in one. “My card.” He set down a small, embossed white paper on the table and threw Bilbo that unnerving secret smile. “I will be in touch.”

And the old man was out the door and gone, leaving Bilbo with a business card, the bill, and a million and ten questions.

* * *

_What. The. Fuck._

The cup of Earl Grey (no caffeine after 5 o'clock) shook in Bilbo’s trembling hands, and this time not from heart palpitations.

_What. The fuck._

He peered about the hallway from the kitchen table. Yes, the front door was still bolted shut with every bolt it held. He wondered if that bookcase in the family room would be too heavy to slide in front of the door. No no no, stop it, christ, he wasn’t in Iraq for god’s sake.

But still.

On the table sprawled a printed copy of a poem by Billy Collins. He glanced at the first lines:

> I ask you
> 
> What scene would I want to be enveloped in  
>  more than this one,  
>  an ordinary night at the kitchen table,  
>  floral wallpaper pressing in,  
>  white cabinets full of glass,  
>  the telephone silent,  
>  a pen tilted back in my hand?
> 
> It gives me time to think  
>  about all that is going on outside--  
>  leaves gathering in corners,  
>  lichen greening the high grey rocks,  
>  while over the dunes the world sails on,  
>  huge, ocean-going, history bubbling in its wake...

_  
_Had it really been so long since he'd left Hobbiton?  Not since what's-her-name Brandybuck wedding three years ago and that had been half an hour away in Hardbottle. What a night; he must've been the only one who remembered it, and that included Gorbadoc's great aunt who was hoopin' and hollerin' about some... _interesting_  flashbacks she had to the hippy age. God, what times...

And he hadn't been out of the country in...  _Fifteen years,_ according to that old Gandalf gaffer. 

Thinking of which: _What. The fucking. Fuck._

Would that be so crazy to push a bookcase in front of the door? After the English string bean cousin of Jolly Old St. Nick took him out for coffee (and didn’t pay, mind you), dropped a line about some ‘secret mission’ and shit, and then pulled out 'The Life Story of Bilbo Baggins' in a bound leather folder like it was a fucking resume?

It was nice leather too, looked expensive- _Dumb fuck! That’s not the point!_

Who the hell was that guy, really? What the hell was this ‘secret mission’ and why did he need _him_? Who the hell needed Bilbo Baggins, single writer living off his parents’ money in his parents’ house in Middle-Of-Who-Cares, USA? Bilbo Baggins whose writing earned the same critique as his lovemaking; “it’ll do.” Bilbo Baggins whose neighbors gave him polite nods while their children sniggered “Dildo Faggins” behind his back, whose friends had long ago stopped calling except for his birthday. Bilbo Baggins who was born the same way he would likely die; without a peep, on schedule, under a cloudy New England sky while newspapers reported that nothing unexpected or extraordinary had occurred.

Bilbo Baggins who woke up in the morning and didn’t know why he bothered.

 _Crack_. “FUCK ME!” Bilbo leapt out his chair, clutching his bloody, burning hand. He didn’t think he was gripping the cup that hard, but apparently the pink shards and puddle of hot tea soaking the Billy Collins poem on his kitchen table thought otherwise.

He sighed. That was his favorite cup, too. On the dripping paper, he still could still make out some of the stanzas:

> ...But beyond this table  
>  there is nothing that I need,  
>  not even a job that would allow me to row to work,  
>  or a coffee-colored Aston Martin DB4  
>  with cracked green leather seats.  
>   
>  No, it's all here,  
>  the clear ovals of a glass of water,  
>  a small crate of oranges, a book on Stalin,  
>  not to mention the odd snarling fish  
>  in a frame on the wall,  
>  and the way these three candles--  
>  each a different height--  
>  are singing in perfect harmony....

It didn’t really matter, he thought after bandaging his hand and sweeping up the broken bits. He could boil more tea, buy another cup, print out another copy of the poem. In the end, it didn’t matter.

He considered banging his head on the kitchen table just to see if it felt like anything.

He decided to order Chinese food instead.

* * *

Outside his house, beyond Bilbo's earshot, a maroon Cadillac beater idled at a low hum. Inside, four figures in shadows dropped cigarettes out the window, gazing at the house with idle interest.

"This is the place?"

"There's the mark, like Gandalf said." Indeed there was a swipe of blue paint on the mailbox marked '221'.

"Looks like a nice place."

"Nori, you so much as touch a fucking thing-"

"Whoa whoa whoa, all I said is it was nice, calm your tits-"

"If you two are finished, _"_ grumbled a weary female voice. "He'll be calling at any moment."

 _Scritch._  Right on cue, a deep rumble over the radio:  _"Come in, Group 1, is it the place?"_ Bu-beep.

The driver reached out a thick, heavily inked hand and grabbed the walky-talky. "Yep, marked by G and everything. Block's all clear, too. Over." Bu-beep.

The rumble spoke again. " _Alright. What's your position, Group 2?"_

A squeaky, girly voice: _“Almost there, ETA: ‘bout 6 and a half minutes- stop that, Fi-!”_ Bu-beep. _“Sorry, Over.”_ Bu-beep.

You could almost feel the exasperation of the deep rumble voice as it spoke again. _“Copy that. Group 3?”_

A thinner, higher voice broke over the radio. _"On our way. Bom- I mean, double-B couldn’t hold his wee. ETA: ‘bout 15 minutes. How’s G gonna get here? Over.”_ Bu-beep just as another voice began to protest in the background.

The rumble spoke again. “ _Roger that. And he’ll come when he comes. Over.”_

A moment of charged silence. Then:  _"Group 1, D, you know what to do. Over. "_ Bu-beep.

The driver's lips cracked as he grinned. "Copy that. Over." Bu-beep. He put down the walky-talky, turned the key in the ignition and the engine shuddered into a creaky silence. Turning to the other woman and two men, he smirked. "Time for dinner."

* * *

 

> So forgive me  
>  if I lower my head now and listen  
>  to the short bass candle as he takes a solo  
>  while my heart  
>  thrums under my shirt--  
>  frog at the edge of a pond--  
>  and my thoughts fly off to a province  
>  made of one enormous sky  
>  and about a million empty branches. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> 1\. “like a rude, uninvited houseguest” hehe, the joke’s about to turn on Bilbo.  
> 2\. Remember the thrush from the movie? A sign that Smaug was leaving the mountain?  
> 3\. Like you never heard someone say “Dildo Faggins before.”  
> 4\. Bilbo suddenly has a very deep history here that ranges from very obvious – like that he was bullied in college – to very subtle – like how his father died of liver cancer and Bilbo gets a bottle of Fanta instead of any alcohol.  
> 5\. I am a fangirl over Ian McKellen’s voice  
> 6\. The poem is called "I Ask You" by Billy Collins.  
> 7\. All references ("Martin or Richard," "221", etc.) are likely intentional. ;)
> 
> Ok I just was on a plane for 6 hours and this is what came out while I was procrastinating on another story. I have no idea if I want to continue it and I feel a bit like Bilbo right now, blargh.  
> Comments and critiques and private messages are welcomed.


	2. Chapter 2

_How the actual fuck did this happen?_ thought Bilbo as he stood shakily in the hall while pandemonium consumed his home.

How had it begun? He swore that just a moment ago he was Googling Gandalf’s name to find out who the crafty bastard was. Not only had he never constructed Bag End but also never had been an architect in thefirst place, which just puzzled Bilbo even more. Christ, what a day.

Little did he know it wasn’t ending any time soon.

 _Ding dong_. But instead of a deliveryman with his chicken lo mein, there towered a big, bald refrigerator of a man. “Dwalin,” he barked as he shoved by Bilbo. “At yer service.” And before Bilbo could even ‘how-do-you-do’ or ‘who-the-fuck-are-you’ Big Bald Scary Dude had launched himself into the pantry.

Bilbo couldn’t even tell him off. Just looking at those tattooed biceps made him wince.

 _Ding dong_. “Balin,” Before him stood a woman with short, silver hair and a grandmotherly smile. “At your service.”

“Oy, where’s the feckin’ beer?!” came a roar from the kitchen.

“Oh, Durin’s left bollock.” The woman rolled her eyes and slipped into the foyer, her orange-purple shift assaulting Bilbo’s retinas. “Laddie, where’d ya keep the beer?”

“I- I don’t-”

“Ye don’ have any? _Schisse_. Doesn’ have any, brother!” she bellowed back into the kitchen, leading to a roar, a bang and a curse that Bilbo couldn’t (and didn’t want to) understand.

 “Doesn’ have any what?” cooed a thin man in a slick leather jacket, standing casually in his hall. _What! Where the hell did_ he _come from?_ _…and brother?_

“Beer.”

“Damn, ya shittin me?” He shook his head and flicked a cigarette lighter. _Does he have a cigarette? Fuck it Bilbo stop stop-_ “I’ll ring Bofur.”

“Good, I gotta go help Dwalin, he might be cookin’.”

“Christ, go stop him before the whole town is lost.” _How did his hair get into three points like that? Mislabeled rubber glue?_

“Ey there’s a nice, big bottle o’ feck-off in ‘ere.”

“Only if you join me,” chuckled the Starfish-Head before glancing at Bilbo. “Ah where are my manners? Nori.” Bilbo blinked. “What happened to your hand there?”

What- oh right, the bandage. “I- I cu- I cut myself.” Broke a cup.” Bilbo muttered dumbly.

“No shit, ey? Looks bad.” Starfish-Head scanned the room with a casual eye. “Gotta nice place here.”

“Nori, don’ ye have a beer order to make?” The woman raised a stern eyebrow at him.

“Alrigh’, alrigh, jeez, I’m goin’.” _Ding dong_.

Before either Bilbo or Starfish-Head even reached the knob, in strode five more intruders.

“Fili!” “Kili!” chirped a pair of beaming young guys, fresh out of college, no doubt. “At your service, Mister Boggins!”

“Ori!” squeaked out a woman with carrot braids, thick-rimmed glasses, and a bad lip-biting habit.

Nothing, said the big, shaggy haired man with a crater in his forehead.

“Dori, thanks for having us,” said a short, squat man in a plaid button-down who had all the look of an accountant, for some reason in Bilbo's head. He threw a pointed scowl at Starfish-Head, who in turn acted like the other didn’t exist.

And before Bilbo could even get a babbled word out, all strode into the kitchen. A series of laughs and clangs and slamming cabinets ensued. The foyer fell silent. In an old black-and-white photo, Bungo Baggins peered sternly down at his son.

“…It’s ‘Baggins’, ” he finally whimpered to the dirt-streaked rug (who didn’t really give a damn).

_What the actual fuck just happened?_

* * *

_Crash._ “Whoops-a-daisy!” said the young brown-haired man in a cheery tone.

“The feck ya do now, Kili? Ya supposed to be helpin’ me with dinner!”

“Hey, why the fuck’s it always my fault?”

“Hey watch yourself, there’s a lady present!”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake Dori. You’re my brother, not my mother.”

“Tha- that is my best china!” cried out Bilbo feebly, creeping into the white (well, formerly white) kitchen. But what really caught his was the _enormous_ array of food laid out on his kitchen table. Crackers, cheese, rice, pasta, cookies (wait, he had no cookies, where the fuck did those come from?), red soup, white soup, who-the-hell-knows soup… Every cabinet was opened; every single one was empty. _Did I really own that much food?_

_Did. Because six fucking strangers are in my kitchen eating it all._

“You alright there, laddie?” The grandmotherly woman flashed him a twinkling smile that looked awfully familiar to one he saw earlier today… “Ya need some help?”

“I-I’m fine.” Too bad the trembles in his arm gave everything away.

“’ere, I’m boiling up some tea for you. That’s it.” She guided him to a kitchen chair – _his_ chair in _his_ kitchen – and put a hand on his forehead like a mother would to a three year old. “You’ll be alright. Lot t’ take in.”

“He’s not gunna be a very good burglar if he’s scared shitless of just six of us.”

“He’ll be fine,” snapped the woman. “Don’t you fret, Mr. Dwalin.”

“Oh, ya know she’s pissed when she’s usin’ the mister on ya.”

“Nori, I swear to fuckin’ god-”

“Goddammit, man, language!”

“...B-Burglar?” But nobody heard Bilbo's whimper; Bald Scary Dude had locked his arm around Starfish Head’s neck and the mayhem that ensued overwhelmed the room. And certainly it did nothing to stop his trembles.

 _BANG!_ “THE FU-!” The back-door burst open, revealing a pack of _six_ _more men_ (including Starfish-Head)?! “Did someone call for beer?” A black-moustached man with an over-sized ski hat grinned as he hoisted up six-packs like Super Bowl trophies. The roar that followed could’ve woken the dead in seven neighboring states.

And so Bilbo watched helplessly, assuming Limp-Noodle-Pose in his chair, as all twelve _(twelve!)_ proceeded to feast and drink and lay his little, proper home to waste.

* * *

"You sure no one's following us?"

"Yes, I'm sure, no less sure than the last three times you asked, Your Highness."

"Don't patronize me."

"I was old before you were born, I'll patronize you whenever I want."

Gandalf heard the cracking of an unwilling smirk from the dark-faced stranger next to him in the car.

"What's he like?"

"The burglar? Just as I remembered him as a child, maybe a bit too settled, but no matter he'll join."

"You still trust him."

"Is that a question?

"Perhaps."

Gandalf rubbed his beard and took a long, pondering breath. "Yes. I trust in Bilbo Baggins. Always have, always will."

* * *

Big Bald Scary Dude and Starfish Head wrestled each other over the blue antique carpet in his living room while Funny Hat, Donut Man (literally, a man so round and so ginger he looked like a pumpkin Munchkin), and the college boys roared in red-faced hurrahs. The girl with carrot sticks and the silver-haired woman sat plumply on two armchairs, the girl giggling and biting her lip again while the woman merely smirked, looking ever like the grandmother watching over her grandchildren. Two older men – one red-haired and the other blonde-haired, both in Hawaiian print shirts – chatted with the short accountant man who had chastised the others over language, but now based on the sideways sulks he launched at Starfish Head, he’d long given up on that. All the while, the man with the hole in his head walked around to each window and at each let out the shrill scrape of lowering the blinds.

_Fuck._

_Holy Jesus fuck._

The best part about it? The woman didn’t forget the tea she promised. Just brought it over like it was no big goddamn deal.

_How the fuck did this happen?_

Then he smacked himself on the head for his idiocy.

 _Gandalf._ Only _he_ could’ve known about Bilbo’s back door and told this crowd of it.

_But Gandalf didn’t build Bag-End, never was an architect…_

Could his teeth snap if ground together hard enough?

Didn’t matter. _Where’s that goddamned business card?_

* * *

_Bri-i-i-ng._

“Good evening, to whom am I speak-?”

“Gandalf?” _Clang_ in the background. “Or whatever your real name is. It’s Bilbo Baggins. You know, that man at the grocery store who’s _currently being held hostage in his own home?_ ” – _Smash_ – “No, stop- put that back! What _the hell_ is going on? Why the _hell_ are there _twelve goddamn_ people _in my house_ who I’ve _never_ seen beforein my _goddamn life_ who are in the process of _pillaging_ my pantry, _soiling_ my rugs, _wrecking_ my plumbing, _tossing_ my silverware, - no, stop that! You’ll blunt them!”

In the background: “ _Ya ‘ere that lads…?”_

“Oh fuck-a-doodle-doo, now they’ve broken into _song_. And _throwing_ my grandmother’s dishes, for fuck’s sake. I need a smoke. I haven’t needed a fucking smoke in _ten fucking years_ and now I do and _it’s all your fucking fault_. _” Ding dong_. “Oh, now you’re in for it, some neighbor probably called and complained about the noise and thank _fucking_ God for them! Oh so _now_ you all are quiet! Oh, just you fuckin’ wait, Gandalf, you crack-addled, senile, no-good son of a - _Oh._ ”

At some point, the phone fell and smashed on the floor. Bilbo didn’t remember when.

Before him stood a tall, dark-browed man, donning a black fedora and a long black wool coat. It concealed a well-tailored, _very_ handsome blue suit that complimented a pair of icy-blue eyes, glittering in the night, scouring the depths of Bilbo’s soul.

_Oh._

_Oh my._

Peeking out to the tall, dark, handsome stranger was a regrettably familiar, very amused old man in a dusty gray cloak and plaid suit. He was just about to snap his cellphone shut. The grandfatherly smile did not warm Bilbo’s shaking heart.

“Crack-addled, senile, no-good son of a what, may I ask?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was really short. Makes more sense with the flow of the story. Next chapter will be largely exposition and will be much longer to account for all this crap.  
> 


	3. Chapter 3

“Do invite us inside, Master Baggins, if you will,” drawled the old man. “It is not the warmest of nights and I am quite famished.”

Bilbo had a vague memory of what words were like. “Um…I….um…”

“Yes, yes! Come right in!” The accountant man in the plaid shirt shoved Bilbo to the side and beckoned the two into the house. Bilbo’s house. (Or once upon a time it was Bilbo’s house). “There are some tuna sandwiches and spaghetti left, but not much I’m afraid, our host had a somewhat meager pantry-”

_That’s because it’s enough for one person, not for hosting the fucking traveling circus._

“And even that’s not gunna last,” chimed in Moustache-and-Hat, “if Mr. Nori and I ‘ave to hold back Mr. Bombur much longer.” He and Starfish Head each had a firm hand on the arms of a very unhappy Ginger Donut Man.

“All the precautions have been made?”

Oh, dear God, that _voice._ It belonged to Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome who stepped right by him without a second glance, and it threw Bilbo down a cliff made of chocolate and cinnamon and some other foreign spice that reminded him of that odd rum cake that Mirabelle’s uncle from Bosnia brought to a Christmas party once-

“Perimeter checked, tighter than a baby’s arse,” replied the human refrigerator with a growl. Those biceps could splitBilbo’s head like a melon- _no no don’t think about it_.

“Bifur says ‘e covered all the windows,” declared Moustache-and-Hat after the Hole-Headed Man made a few rapid gestures.

“Gloin and Oin are takin’ first watch,” added Balin.

“And I disconnected the phones!” chirped the blonde college-age boy.

Bilbo’s mouth went bone dry. _Shit, they were good_.

“Oh heavens, where are my manners?” Gandalf clapped his hands with a cheerful gasp. “I’ve neglected to introduce our host!”

And suddenly a force expected of a man half Gandalf’s age dragged Bilbo into the center of the foyer. Bilbo’s mouth thought now would be a brilliant time to go on strike. _Thanks a shitton._

“Thorin – and all present company - this is Bilbo Baggins, our most gracious host for this evening.” Bilbo bristled internally at the pride and joy in Gandalf’s voice. “And Bilbo” – the writer’s body was swiveled around – “allow me to introduce the leader of this enterprise, Mr. Thorin Oakenshield.”

Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome had removed the long black coat to reveal the navy suit that Bilbo only got a glimpse of earlier. To call it ‘well cut’ was to call the Hope Diamond ‘nice and sparkly’. It was _stunning_ ; it fit the Romanian god before him like a _glove_ , with not a single goddamn ripple or wrinkle out of place. Somewhere out there, some tailor should have enough savings to retire to the Caymans after making this piece of fucking art.

“Pleasure.” His rough dark hand engulfed Bilbo’s pasty one.

“L-L-Likew-” But the handshake ended before Bilbo could get a word out.

_Ding-dong._

Everyone – because apparently everyone had piled into his foyer – froze.

“Who the fuck is left?” hissed the brown-haired college boy.

No one answered.

Starfish Head made for the door. “I’ll handle-

“No” snarled Scary Dude. “Get the fuck back.”

And before Starfish could protest, Scary Dude pushed him and Mr. TDH away, then with cat-like steps approached the door. The rest of the party pressed their backs against the foyer walls and staircase. No one dared let out so much as a breath.

 _Ding-dong_. Scary Dude jerked his hand. Out clicked a switchblade. He peered through the peephole and then wrenched the door open with a huff.

Standing there was a pale Asian boy carrying a plastic bag labeled ‘Wong Wok’. Seeing Big Bald Scary Dude, his eyes went as wide as dinner plates.

“O-order for Mister B-Baggins!”

“That’s me-Umph!” Bilbo’s mouth was promptly covered by a hand far from sanitary. _Do not vomit. Do not vomit, you have nothing to vomit up._

 “I’ll take it.” Scary Dude snatched the bag, took a mighty sniff, and smiled cruelly. Like _fucking hell_ was he going to take Bilbo’s Wong Wok. “Whatcha still standin there for?”

The boy nearly fell of the stoop, the poor kid. “Th-Tha-that’ll c-cost 11.40, s-sir.”

“11.40, eh?”

“Y-y-yes…”

“There ya go.” In swooped Balin with a kindly smile and a few bills. “For yer pains” - Bilbo caught the flash of a $50 bill slipped into the boy’s hand– “an’ your discretion. Just another normal delivery to Mister Baggins’ house. Nothin’ unusual an’ no one else home, understood?” As kind as she seemed, her voice had steel in it.

The boy’s eyes had popped like Ping-Pong balls.

“Undastood?” snarled Bald Scary Dude.

“Yes sir!” yelped the boy, all but tripping off the stoop. “Good day sir! Thank you Mr. Baggins!” A car door slammed and a set of tires squealed away before the front door was shut again (and locked.) The foyer released a collective breath.

“I think he understood,” Balin said dryly. 

Bilbo's mouth was freed and he gasped a breath, just barely resisting the urge to fall to his knees. “Sorry ‘bout tha’, Mister Baggins.” Moustache-and-Hat clapped a heavy hand on his back. He stank of oil and cigarettes. Meanwhile, Scary Dude handed off the ‘Wong Wok’ bag to Mr. TDH.

 _Oh like fucking hell he's getting my Chinese._ But Bilbo could only let out a squeak of protest.

“He” – Mr. TDH looked to Gandalf and jerked his chin at Bilbo – “is who you choose as the last member of our Company?”

“Yes. He is.” Gandalf maintained a polite expression, but something in that tone made Bilbo’s neckhairs curl. 

“You chose a _hobbit_?”

Scary Dude snorted. Balin pressed her lips thin. The college boys bit their lips to hold back their snickers.

“A what?”

Fourteen pairs of eyes bored into Bilbo’s skull. Dead silence in every sense of the phrase fell on the room.  
Of all the fucking times for Bilbo’s mouth to start functioning again.

“A _hobbit_.” The dark man bit the word like a nut. Scary Dude continued to sneer.

“Come now, Bilbo.” A gentle hand fell onto Bilbo’s shoulder. Gandalf stood just behind him and threw a withering look at Mr. TDH. “It means nothing.”

Bilbo's nose twitched. While residents of Hobbiton frequently called themselves ‘Hobbits’ and ‘Hobbitonites’, the sneer that Mr. TDH put into the word – along with the hint of a strange, gravelly accent – made Bilbo think that this man meant it in another way. And based on the red-faced, sniggring reaction of everyone else in the room, it was not meant kindly.

"Let's all-"

“And what the fuck is a _hobbit_?” 

No, the ‘dead silence’ before was a joke, a goddamned party in comparison. _This_ was dead silence, where most of the room had gone pale, Gandalf’s eyebrows flew up his forehead, and Mr. TDH’s pale eyes sliced Bilbo like razor blades.

What the fuck was Bilbo doing? What the fucking fuck was Bilbo thinking? Easy: he wasn’t. The chaos begun by Batty British Santa had plunged his brain into a sea of fear and panic, which slammed against the pillars of his common sense and survival instincts with every newly arrived intruder. And this Romanian god/jackass named Thorin had just flung the toppling blow.

“Listen, Bilbo-”

“No!” he snapped, ripping the old man’s hand off his shoulder. “Not listening anymore! I am fucking _through_! Gracious host, my great aunt’s blistering ass! All I fucking see is fourteen fucking criminals standing in my goddamn house. The only gracious about me is that I haven’t called the cops. Which I _can’t._  Because I’m a fucking _hostage_. In my own _fucking home._ ”

Bilbo whirled around and jabbed a finger towards the tall Romanian jackass. “You! If you’re the leader of this ‘enterprise’ then lead them out the door and never come goddamn back!”

Mr. Tall, Dark and Dickish stared at him. His eyes had gone beyond icicles and now hurled blue blizzards at Bilbo. Bilbo however had no more fucks to give. This man had ignited something in Bilbo that the writer hadn’t felt in a long time (read: never), and now he was gonna fuckin’ _burn_ for it.

“ _And if I refuse_?” The man whispered it low, acid dripping with every syllable.

Bilbo let out a grumble, gripping his hands into test fists. No fucking chance he had of fighting anyone here – not even the old man – but he could very well pretend.

Except not. Fourteen to one were bad odds for anyone, including tiny little Bilbo Baggins, semi-professional writer and career coward.

“Fine,” he snapped. “Do what you want.” The ‘Wong Wok’ bag crackled as he ripped it from Thorin’s hand. “Eat all my goddamn tuna, but allow me some shred of peace.”

And with a likely overdramatic flourish of his robe – he was still wearing his _bathrobe_ for Christ’s sake - he stomped past Starfish Head and Carrot-Sticks through the living room and slammed the doors of his study.

His lo mein wasn’t even warm anymore.

* * *

 _Bilbo_ …

Where was he? He was floating, the air like molasses. No, he was swimming, but he couldn’t see, everything was black as night.

 _Bilbo_ …

He opened his mouth to answer – _dumb fuck!_ The water spilled in and seized his lung. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t fucking breathe.

_Bilbo…_

Where was he _he couldn’t breathe_ the water held him in its iron clutches _he couldn’t breathe_ someone cackling in the distance and horror seized his veins _he couldn’t breathe he could breathe he was drowning he couldn’t breathe_ -

“Bilbo!”

“Garh!” The sea disappeared, the water vanished from his lungs and he bolted up, gulping in the sweet, delicious air.

“It’s alright, Bilbo, you’re alright."

And like that, he woke from one nightmare right into a-fucking-nother.

“How’d you feel?”

It was like looking through a crappy microscopic with smeared lens, but eventually Bilbo’s eyes made out the face of an old man – not Gandalf, thank fuck - with blonde-white hair, a Hawaiian shirt and a scraggly beard. He knelt beside Bilbo’s sprawled form on the living room couch, an open med kit on the floor. It had to be the living room; he’d recognize that robin’s-egg-blue paint anywhere. His mother had so insistently wanted that color when they first moved to Bag-End that she painted the room herself – without a single clue of how to paint. It took two weeks and five coats to get it decent, but she damn well did it. That was Belladonna Took for you.

“Well?” The strange old man looked at him impatiently.

“Grrmghergermergh,” tumbled out of the now unofficially retired writer.

“You passed out in your study.” _No. Fuck no_. But too bad: there sitting on a yellow armchair with his legs crossed and his blue eyes a-twinkling sat Bilbo’s arch-nemesis of the moment. “Low blood sugar and the rush of adrenaline caused you to crash, according to Mr. Oin’s expert medical terminology. Your head had plopped right into your lo mein.”

A withered hand pressed against the front of Bilbo’s head. It felt anything but grandfatherly. “No bump, good. Ye’ll be fine, no lastin’ harm done. But if someone could get some goddamn beer or toast into this kid, he’ll be doin’ a hell of a lot better.”

“Mr. Baggins doesn’t drink,” drawled the rage-inducing old man.

“I have the toast- Mr. Bilbo!” A wide-eyed Carrotsticks rushed in with a plate. “You’re awake, thank goodness! We were worried ‘bout your tumble.”

 _We?_ Why on earth would a baker’s dozen of criminals care about his wellbeing?

 “Ye got the toast?” grumbled Oin.

“Yep, here it is.”

“Wha’?”

Carrotsticks rolled her eyes with a huff and showed him the plate.

“Ah!” cried the old man. “Good job, Laurie. Get it in ‘im while it’s hot. Gandalf.” He nodded at Gandalf and strode out of the room.

“It’s not hot,” she murmured at the ground. “Sorry ‘bout that, I think we used up all your bread.”

“Thanks,” Bilbo mumbled. It was dry, rubbery, and as promised, cold. He ate anyway.

Her smile was small and positively adorable. “You’re welcome.” How the hell did she get mixed with this crowd? “My name’s Ori, by the way. I realize there’s a lot of names you’re going to have to remember if you’re coming with us.”

Bilbo spat out a half-chewed ball of toast. “ _What?_ ”

“Ori,” crooned Gandalf a calm tone. “Why don’t you rejoin the party? Thank you for the toast.”

Biting her lip, she nodded, but threw a worried look at Bilbo before scurrying out.

“Now.” The old man, much to Bilbo’s horror, luxuriated back into the yellow armchair with a sigh. “Where shall we begin?”

“Roget’s Thesaurus,” grumbled Bilbo, pulling a blanket over his weak frame. “All the entries for ‘insufferable prick’.”

Gandalf smiled. Bilbo _hated_ that smile.

“And then, we can move onto why I have a small zoo in my home,” he spat.

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“Fuckin’ what?”

Gandalf was unruffled. He perched his hands atop his knee. “Imagine if this were one of your stories, Bilbo. Indulge me: what do you think is happening right now?”

 _The fuck._ Had the old man finally gone loony? Did he not understand that there was a big bloody difference between real-life and fiction? That this is no goddamned story, but Bilbo’s _fucking life._

But: _if…_

“Hard to say. You got quite the motley crew in there,” he replied dryly.

“Tell me about them then.”

Bilbo scoffed, but then coughed. Still weak, still can’t run. _Shit._ “Fine, whatever, um…” He frowned. “The big one who’s bald and with tattoos all over. I’d say ex-con, but…”

“But…” Gandalf raised his eyebrow, the infuriating smile crawling up again.

“One of them had an anchor and a banner over it in Latin. So, veteran. Navy, maybe, or even Marines. And based on the accent, that would be the Royal Navy, then. But some of them are prison tattoos, but they’re older, and he doesn’t bother to hide them. So he cleaned up his act and went into the military.”

The old man nodded.

“And then Balin. She’s…peculiar. Seems to care about everyone, seems grandmotherly, but at the same time, cold, you know? And she doesn’t have a wedding ring. So, just a kind…kind-ish old woman. Important, too, and smart, though she dresses otherwise.”

“How do you figure that?”

“She swore in German, but her accent’s British. Plus, when she was walking around McBroodypants-”

“I beg your pardon?”

Bilbo huffed. “Fine, I think his name was Thorin. Whatever, he threw her a look of respect. So, unmarried matron who dresses how she likes and speaks German. That’s Balin.

“Next, the guy with the starfish hair. I think his name was Nori. _Oh._ ” Bilbo’s mouth dropped a bit. “Balin, Dwalin. Nori, Ori, Dori. The names rhyme when they’re-”

“Family, yes,” confirmed Gandalf. He was smiling hard, so Bilbo must be guessing pretty well.

“So he’s brothers with Ori. They don’t seem too close though; he’s older, so maybe grew up apart. Or he spent some time in prison - and she resents that. But she doesn’t seem the resentful type. Dori, on the other hand; they don’t speak to each other.”

“Tell me more about them individually.”

“Erm, Nori used to steal. From houses, maybe, or petty theft. I didn’t see any prison tattoos so no gangs; he just goes his own bad way. Dori’s an accountant. I dunno why I think ‘accountant’ when I see him, but I do. He works hard, lives a structured life, trying to save up for something; that’s why he and Ori wear threadbare clothes even though he’s got an accountant’s salary. but seems too regimented for his own good. Ori doesn’t like it, but she’s too shy to say something. She’s an anxious type. Bites her nails, lip tremble, possibly low self-esteem when it comes to standing up for herself. She’s a student, I suppose. Her skin is pasty and soft, so spends a lot of time indoors; she blinks a lot, so uses the computer quite a bit. Seems exceptionally young in this crowd, even compared to the college-age boys. Are they twins?”

“Who? Fili and Kili?”

“Christ, _more_ rhyming names.” Bilbo rolled his eyes. “They seem like the type that’d rush a frat the moment they step into college, but nice enough: they brought Balin and Ori beers politely enough. They want to be at the big boy’s table so they hang around the likes of Dwalin and Nori, especially Dwalin. Who’s left?”

“Bofur, Bifur, Bombur. Bofur has a hat, Bifur has a scar, Bombur has…a girth.”

“Ah. I dunno how’s they’re related. None of them look alike. Oh well, Bofur works with cars. He’s got the smell of it and the quick wit of a mechanic who’s gotta keep customers entertained; you should’ve heard the jokes he was telling in front of the portrait of my grandmother. Anyway, he looks out for Bombur and Bifur – did I get those right? Bifur is mute, not deaf; he heard Thorin’s question, but had to respond in sign language. Is that because of the scar in his head? It looks like a bullet hole, but I can’t be sure. I wonder where he works, if he works at all; I’m sure employers don’t look at him too kindly. Bombur, I’ve not spent much time around. He’s fat, that’s for sure, but doesn’t talk much. Maybe because of low self-image issues, so he’s had a weight problem for a while. I can’t tell what job he has, so I doubt he likes it much. None of them make much money though.”

Gandalf continued to smile. “How about Oin and his brother Gloin?”

“Those two? They both wear Hawaiian shirts and both have tans, so retired or living like it. Oin looks older than he is; his hearing is gone and his skin is withered, but his hair’s not gone gray yet. He has medical training, but no physician’s touch, that’s for sure. I almost want to say he’s a veteran; likely ‘Nam or the Gulf. No, ‘Nam. Definitely ‘Nam. Gloin, on the other hand, smiles more, seems more aware. He’s in his late 50’s but he dyes his hair and wears a goatee, so I want to say he worked in the music industry, or some equivalent thereof. Got a wife though, I saw his ring, and he was talking fondly about someone named Gimli to Fili and Kili, so that’s likely his son.

“So that’s two veterans, one old and old young; one accountant; three college students who don’t seem too troublesome or bad; one twenty-something who does; two family men, one with a wife and kid and one with brothers; and one smart business lady. Who am I missing?”

“Two,” said Gandalf, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “And then the enterprise itself.”

“You and Thorin, then.”

“Everything you think you can guess about me,” drawled the old man with an edge of seriousness, “will be wrong, I can assure you."

Bilbo took a breath. “Fine, then. Thorin …he’s mysterious. He speaks little, but when he does, it commands a room. Everyone stops and looks to him. He’s obviously their leader. He dresses exceptionally well, so upper-class background, likely from London based on his accent. Except…” Bilbo furrowed his brow.

“Except?”

“I don’t know. His voice…it has foreign undertones, but there’s a roughness when he says certain things. So born in Germany or Eastern Europe, maybe, and raised in England. I’d also say he’s a businessman who went to boarding school and Oxford and the like, given that he flaunts his poshness like a military standard (dunno why I thought military standard there, but whatever). But…his hands.”

“His hands?”

“They’re…tough, calloused. And so is his face; he has a scar over his right eyebrow, and wrinkles all over, and beneath his suit you can just _tell_ he’s built. Businessmen are softer than him, softer everywhere, so unless he’s the head of the Mafia, I doubt he’s -” Bilbo almost cut off his own tongue as his jaw snapped shut. Every part of him went cold. _Oh, dear God._

“Bilbo?” Gandalf raised an eyebrow at him in concern.

Bilbo was too busy remembering how to breathe. _Oh, shit on a cracker. Oh fucking hell. And I just- Oh fucking Christ on a fucking biscuit._

“Have you figured it out?”

It explained everything. It explained absolutely _everything_ : the families, the fucking rhyming names, the fact that so few seemed like criminals but were all here anyway, joking around with each other because _fuckin’-a_ they were all in the same goddamned _family_. The drawn blinds, the $50 bribe, the icy eyes, the leather-bound ‘Life Story of Bilbo Baggins’. It all made sense now. Cold, terrifying sense.

 _“Mafia_ ,” Bilbo breathed out, his hands trembling like charged wires.

Gandalf smiled at him. His head shook…from side to side. “Not quite.”

“Then fucking _what_?!” roared Bilbo. “I’m tired of this fucking game! I’m tired of getting jerked around and shitting my pants about all this! What the hell is going on?! _Ocean’s Fourteen: the Musical?!_ ”

“That’s a bit closer.”

Bilbo almost fell off the couch. There, standing at the threshold between the living room and the kitchen, was the entire goddamn party.

All thirteen pairs of eyes were fixed on him.

_You gotta be shitting me._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops I pulled a PJ and made this scene overly long. Welp.  
> Everything else will be explained in the next chapter. Mostly. Have to keep some surprises, you know.  
> Thanks for reading! Here's the look that inspired my description of Thorin.  
> 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty kidlets, get ready for a crash course on where the hell this all came from.

 

It began long, long ago. A few thousands years, to be imprecisely precise, in the heart of what is now Eastern Europe. There, a man came across a single mountain peak astride two rivers that converged to one at its base. The mountain was called Erebor and the man Durin I – later known as Durin the Deathless. He claimed this mountain as his new kingdom, which he called Khuzduldum and its people Khuzdul. There, his decedents dwelled for the next several centuries. That perhaps was the most unusual feature of the Khuzdul, for though they fought fiercely against invaders and thought highly of themselves as a people, their heart had no taste for conquest. Instead, while their neighbors squabbled to expand themselves out, Durin’s Folk kept to themselves and dug deep into the mountain. However, Khuzduldum did not go unnoticed by the lords of Europe. In fact it was what the Khuzdul found in their mountain – rivers of iron and tin and precious metals – that led them begrudgingly to venture out into the world. They grew wealthy from trade and taught much to Europe – it was the Khuzdul who developed the first system of tachjy mining resevoirs and who pioneered the use of black powder to blast away stone in the mines. But every Khuzdul who ever left Erebor always returned home. Durin’s Folk had all that they needed in the mountain and desired little more from the outside world.

The outside world on the other other hand was not content with this arrangement. Army after army swept through the forests surrounding Erebor and demanded the king of Khuzduldum to fealty. So stubborn were the Khuzdul people that most empires from the Moravians to the Mongols, from the Ottomans to the Austrians simply let them be, providing that the Khuzdul never openly fight their rule (which they did not). But as nation-states rose and boundaries became firmer, patience with the proud people of Erebor ran thin. In World War II, the Nazi war machine drove straight through the mountain, leaving a third of the Khuzdul population dead in its wake. It rattled Thror, king of Durin’s Folk at the time and direct descendent of Durin himself. For it seemed that Khuzduldum could keep to itself no longer.

As war raged to the west, a power began to rise in the East, and its shadow cast red across the Ural Mountains. As Soviet tanks crept closer and closer, Thror’s worry grew deeper and deeper. One by one, people were ‘disappeared, ’states were dissolved and replaced with smiling puppets who spoke in Russian At last, when VE Day reopened the border and demolished the last check to Soviets’ supremacy, Thror fled Erebor with 5,000 of his subjects. About 2,100 made it to the West. The sun had set on the kingdom of Durin the Deathless.

Durin’s Folk however lived on. While a few hundred went north for the English Isles, Thror had his eye set for America, in particular a state called Nevada. Rumor – though more like myth - spoke of untapped ores to the north, where few had settled and the land was cheap. Several families did, upon arriving in the East, stick there, forming enclaves in cities like New York and Pittsburgh. Meanwhile, Thror led over a thousand of his subjects across the continent to Nevada. There, he purchased a plot of land, established a mining company called Erebor & Co. of which he named himself CEO, and hired his own people as its first employees.

Hardship struck the company in its first few years; what fraction of the royal treasury that Thror could bring from Erebor ran out, leaving his people without pay. Thror persisted though, and the Khuzdul people would follow their king to whatever end. That end went beyond even Thror’s wildest dreams.

In 1962, four years after their arrival in Nevada, seventeen since they fled their home, the Khuzdul people struck a massive vein of gold. Within five years, the company opened a second mining pits and a gold processing facility. In seven years, it sold its first company shares. In ten years, Erebor & Co. was competing handily among the top mining companies in the country. In 1975, Thror’s son Thrain took his place as CEO. Thrain led the company through record-breaking profits as the gold market skyrocketed. The Khuzdul people gathered enough money to establish their own proper town called Dale, located close to the operations of Erebor & Co. Thror took a backseat in the company as Chairman of the Board; his people still recognized him as royalty so he visited them in the eastern states and in England, where his three grandchildren attended prestigious boarding schools. Life seemed good again.

It would not last.

The first blow came in 1989 when two of Erebor & Co.’s five mining pits suffered explosions in the space of one dry August week. Two dozen killed, over a hundred wounded. Operations were stopped for five months for investigations and repairs. During that time, several reports surfaced out of nowhere; it pointed to worn-down structures, poorly maintained equipment, leaks that went unaddressed for months. Thrain was appropriately outraged, but manager after white-faced manager swore they had no idea, that the reports they had seen before were as clean as a whistle. The evidence however seemed to be undeniable. ‘Erebor & Co. Runs Mines On The Cheap,’ read one headline. ‘Unsafe Conditions Led to Mine Disaster,’ read another. The good times began to show their cracks.

The second blow came closer to home. In the fall of 1990, a letter arrived in Nevada: Frerin Oakenshield – the last name adopted by the royal family upon immigration – had not arrived to university. Three weeks later, another letter arrived, consisting of words cut and pasted from magazines. $20 million for Frerin’s release. The envelope also held a military-grade rifle casing, the initials T.O. scratched in the side.

Thror upfront refused to pay, turning a minor story in a media firestorm. “No son of Durin,” he declared, “will be intimidated by petty criminals and troublemakers. But if they so much as touch my grandson, hell will be waiting for them.” Two more letters came; first, a lock of hair; second, a big toe. No matter how hard Thrain and his ex-wife pleaded, the king and head of the Oakenshield family would not give in. “My father’s father lost a leg by a Turkish bullet and went on to win the battle,” he reportedly snarled. “Toes have little import to me.”

In January 1991, a highway patrol in Las Vegas found a burning barrel at the side of the road, the charred remains of a body found inside. Examiners matched dental records and blood type, while police swept the area to little avail. The same day, one last letter was delivered to the Oakenshield residence. _  
_

_'Hell sends its regards.’_

Barely a dozen people attended the funeral. Thorin was waiting at an airport when news channels broadcasted footage of the barrel. It was the first he’d heard of Frerin’s kidnapping.

The third blow to Erebor & Co. came in the midst of the media firestorm. An anonymous source leaked company records and memos that indicted several board members of conspiring to devalue stockholders’ shares for their own gain. The top offender? Thror Oakenshield, who had just died from a debilitating stroke. Thrain scrambled to put together the pieces of his shambling company, but it was too late. Stock prices plummeted. Directors paid massive damages to outraged shareholders and depleted company reserves. More records poured out about glaring holes in company books. Executives of increasingly higher pay grade began to quietly step away. In October 1994, Erebor & Co. declared bankruptcy.

Within the year, the corporation fell into the ownership of a holding company called SMAUG Corp. in a deal negotiated by a desperate Thrain. SMAUG proceeded to liquidate 80% of the company, terminate all employment contracts, and shutter every facility but its headquarters. Threatened with foreclosure and charges of tax evasion by the very town they founded, the Khuzdul people became desperate. Representatives from SMAUG met with town leaders and negotiated new contracts – at half their previous wages. Outraged, some left, but others who could not afford to leave, stayed. Watching powerlessly from the sidelines was Thrain; stripped of his company, his family (his ex-wife had joined their daughter’s family in North Carolina), and his dignity, he now faced charges of fraud. By the time his son landed in Vegas, the deposed CEO disposed of himself in his jail-cell.

Thorin was left heir to a depleted fortune, a dead and scattered family, a devoured company, and a broken people. SMAUG attempted to try him with the crimes of his father, so he fled to Britain, with the help of a fellow Gulf veteran and his sister, Dwalin and Balin.

And that is where I come in.

* * *

 

Gandalf took a pause to sip a cup of tea brought to him by Moustache- erm, Bofur. Bilbo suddenly became aware that his jaw was hanging open like a broken nutcracker. Also that everyone was standing in his living room. He winced pre-emptively for the inevitable fate of his grandmother’s vases if Ging- _Bombur_ ’s elbow wandered any closer to the mantel.

“So,” said Gandalf all of a sudden, replacing the teacup delicately on the saucer. “Have you followed so far?”

 _God I hope so._ Erebor  & Co…. that sounded familiar. He would’ve been in college at the time, halfway finished with his English degree. Right around the time that-

“Nope,” he said abruptly, except _shit_ he’d said it aloud. “I-I mean, yeah.”

 Mr. Tall, Dark- _fine, Thorin_  let out a snort from the doorway, leaning against the oak with his arms crossed. “Hard to believe this is the man who read us all like open books a moment ago.” 

 _Well, if you haven’t anything nice to say, then fuck the fuck off,_  Bilbo huffed internally.  
“So what’s this doing cropping up now? And what’s it got to do with me? And you. And why you lied about knowing my mother and crafting our house.”

Instead of a twinkling smile from the bat-shit crazy old man, he got a snort out of the old, red-haired man with the goatee – Gloin. “So that’s what you got told, eh? He weaseled his way into my house claiming to be one of my old professors.”

Ori raised an eyebrow at him. “Well, couldn’t you tell?”

“Considerin’ I slept my way through college, not a chance.”

That earned a snort from Fili and Kili. Ori looked at them with faint horror.

“He stood behind me in line at my favorite tea shop.” Dori tilted his head up in reminiscence. “Asked me what kind he should order, and the next thing I knew, we were standing at my door and I was inviting him inside.”

Nori let out a t _ch_. Dori fixed his eyes in the opposite direction of his brother.

“That’s nothing,” said Bofur, batting the air with his hand. “This brilliant bastard wandered into my shop askin’ about ‘the loo’.” His mock accent was a pitch perfect parody. “Next thing ye know, he was sittin’ in my office with that smile on his face and just wouldn’ leave.”

Bilbo pursed his lips, hiding a smirk. So he wasn’t the only one blindsided by the grandfather from hell.

“Then he told me about Thorin and the mission, and that pretty much sealed the deal,” added Gloin with a smirk. “I called Oin, called my wife, called my lawyer to go over my will-”

“And the next thing you know, I get a call from the king himself.” Bofur shook his head with a smile. “Bombur ‘ere jus’ ‘bout fell over when he answered the phone.”

“Did not,” grumbled the fat man, while his bright red cheeks said _did too_. Bofur simply chuckled.

“What king?” asked Bilbo.

 Everyone – fucking _everyone_ \- gawked him. Apart from Gandalf, that is and the douche in the doorway. _Well, I’m sorry that I’m just finding out about this super top secret story right the fuck now, you don’t need to look at me like I’m soft in the head._

 “Remember what I said before, Bilbo.” The old man leaned forward, his blue eyes cool and clear. “The Khuzdul are a proud people, and while they may answer to the United States government now, the line of kings has not been forgotten.” He turned his gaze to the man in the doorway with a wistful smile. “Nor I dare say, has it failed.”

_Wait. Hold the fucking phone…_

_Oh my fucking god._

_He’s a king. I am in the presence of an actual (semi?) living, breathing king._

Twelve pairs of eyes turned towards Thorin’s frame in the doorway. Each from Dwalin to Fili, from Oin to Ori, bobbed their heads in all the solemnness of a churchyard.

He nodded in acknowledgement.

_Oh, aren’t you so great and important, you royal asshole._

_Shut up, Bilbo, he’s a king. Kings will do…kingly things._

_Oh fucking hell._

_I’ve ogled, insulted, and glared at a king._

_Brilliant job, Bilbo. Way to keep up all your a-fucking-plus work._

“So the mission” – Gandalf turned to Bilbo with a crafty smile -“is to-”

“Someone framed my family.” Bilbo almost cracked his head on the ceiling at Thorin’s voice. _Oh, lord, as tall and dickish as he is, I could listen to that voice all damn day._ “The explosions that couldn’t be explained, the records never seen before, the kidnapping that went…awry.” He visibly winced at that. “And suddenly this _SMAUG_ ” – he snarled it like a wolf – “this monstrosity that was hardly three years old when it devoured my family’s company, chewed it up, and spit out the damn bones.”

“But why did they?” Thorin hurled a thunderous look at Bilbo that made him wonder why in God’s name he couldn’t just melt into the couch and be fucking done with it all. “I mean, erm.” He coughed, trying to hack up the shame filling his lungs like molasses. “That’s to say, why _your_ family’s company?”

“Long before anything started fallin’, or so much as wobblin’,” said Balin all of a sudden with a grim face, “Erebor & Co. was doing some deep and heavy research under the leadership of man Anton Trask.”

“Trask is absolutely _brilliant_ ,” Ori squealed, only to turn as red as her hair when all attention was focused to her. “Er, was. But I looked through his work last night and he was _unbelievable_ He developed ways to use magnets to separate ore from gangue long before it became common practice. And he figured out how to break down the huge accumulations of acid in waste dumps to shorten rehabilitation time between bouts of mining. He was _miles_ ahead of anyone doing anything at his time.”

“…Was?” was the only word Bilbo could follow in all that…. science.

“One step at a time, laddie,” chided Balin. “Under him, Erebor & Co. became the epicenter of mining and processing technology. Engineers began touring the facilities just for studyin _’_.   
One day Trask approached Thrain for permission to start on a special project, one that went deeper than any development he’d done before. It was a gamble; risky, expensive, but if it worked, Erebor  & Co. could be the king of mining and mining technology for the next hundred years.  
“Thrain was persuaded. He sent off Trask with a couple million dollars in funds but also with a warning: anyone caught so much as giving a whiff of what they were working on would get the boot and a gag order. He knew the risk that a project of this magnitude ran. If it succeeded, every other mining company in the country would want their hands on it, however they can. The men shook hands and the research was dubbed Project Arkenstone

“One afternoon, five years into the project, Trask was seen running into Thrain’s office trembling with excitement. He said he had made a breakthrough. It was six months before the pit explosions happened.”

“What’d he find?”

Balin pressed her lips thin, rapping her hands on the back of Gandalf’s armchair. “We don’t know.”

Bilbo blinked. “You don’t know.”

“My father didn’t leave corporate secrets lying around, regardless of what you or everyone else in the world seems to think,” snarled Thorin in a voice that sent Bilbo’s skin ten inches south.

“The only people who knew the precise details of Project Arkenstone” – Gandalf rubbed his face with all the look of a exhausted babysitter – “were in the room when the project earned its name. One is certainly dead and it is becoming more and more likely that the other shared a similar fate. But based on Ori’s analysis of his work-”

“It’s big,” she squeaked. Her fingers began tapping her sides in excitement. “His lab journals had squiggles in the margins with brand-new molecule structures and all these grand pod-like designs.”

“And Erebor & Co. started buying some very expensive pieces of scientific research during the time of Project Arkenstone,” added in Dori. He lifted in chin in unmistakable bravado. Nori was rolling his eyes in the corner. “Technical equipment that could be used for photo lasers, magnets, nuclear…fission, things-”

“Fusion!” cried an outraged Ori. “Fission is fissures, fusion is fusing! Say it with me, Dori: _fu-sion. Fis-sion._ Not that hard.”

“Nukes seem a bit much for mining.” Bilbo tried a nervous laugh while Dori fought in vain to save his scientific reputation.

“You’d think,” replied Balin dryly. It wasn’t clear if she was joking.

“So it is possible and very much likely that whatever Project Arkenstone claimed it could do, it could worth bringing down a company for it.” Gandalf crossed his legs over and steepled his fingers together. “Luckily for us, there is a highly protected server deep inside the company headquarters that holds scanned copies of every official paper ever passed through Erebor & Co. Not only might it hold all known papers of Project Arkentone, it would also have financial records, stock shares, inspection reports-”

“Everything that could prove Thror and Thrain’s innocence,” finished Bilbo, only to wilt back into his couch when everyone stared down at him _again_. “So why didn’t the company access them during the, um, shitshow?”

Even Gandalf’s lip twitched a smile at that.

“Because my father trusted no one.” Of _course_ Thorin was the only one not amused. “He believed fervently that if someone was behind all this, he or she had to be deep in the company. Besides the media already set their story to sail. Nothing was going to shift its course, not even anything on the servers.”

“So…why would it matter now?”

“Because the truth always comes out.” Thorin locked eyes with Bilbo, glaring at him so hard that Bilbo saw stars. “It _must_ come out.”

“Also, we now have a key.” In his long, wrinkled fingers, Gandalf twirled a small silver flash drive. “And a map to the location of the servers.” In his other hand he held a manila envelope. _The fuck did those come from?_

Thorin looked positively murderous. “How did you come by these?” he snarled in choked tones. He looked genuinely disturbed by…whatever this map and key was. “And why did you wait until now to reveal them?”

“Because the moment when your Company was complete, and the journey may at last begin, seemed like a most proper time.” Gandalf smiled a shit-eating smile, plopping the flash drive and manila folder in the thunder-struck semi-king’s hands. “There you are, your Majesty. I have given you every tool you need to retake your company and clear your family’s name. All I ask in return is that you kindly don’t fuck it up.”

Thorin looked just about ready to fuck something up and its name was Gandalf. But then the storm passed and his hand tightened around the flash drive. “You have my eternal thanks,” he said quietly. Then the semi-king turned around to face the rest of the party. “Gentlemen, and ladies: in the olden days, when a king called upon his subjects to fight, he would be met with knights and lords and warriors.” He took a pause, deliberately scanning each and every person until they were some shade of pink. Bilbo felt the irrepressible urge to slap him; _of course_ they were no warriors, but that’s no good reason to make them feel like _turdlings_ about it-

“I look around,” he continued, “and I see nothing has changed, except for the trends of apparel.” A few scattered grins. His mouth went firm. Bilbo could literally hear twelve backs straightening; they were in the presence of their king after all.

“I bid all thirteen of you: enjoy tonight, what little there is left of it,” he said, dropping his voice low. “For tomorrow, comforts of home are behind you. The assurance of safety is behind you. Second chances no longer exist. We have one shot, one window to see this done. If we miss it, it may be lost forever.” 

Then all of a sudden it hit him like a train just how precisely _awful_ Thorin’s life had gone. He came home after the military to literally _nothing;_ not a penny, not a person, not even a pinch of pride. _Nothing_. He came home and what was waiting for him was a body to bury, a skeleton of a company he once stood heir to, and a broken people who looked up to him as King. His people had come so far from home and now stood to lose it all again. There really was no time to spare.

“We depart tomorrow at zero four hundred, from the gas station on Brandywine Road. I want all fourteen of us and Gandalf well into New York before sun-up. And remember,” rumbled the semi-king, his hard eyes sweeping every face in the room. “Savor tonight. For tomorrow, we no longer have the luxury of fucking up.”

 

 

 

 

_Wait a shit: fourteen?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, while I did a shitton of research for this chapter – including the history of Moldova/Romania/Hungary, the Eastern Bloc, Newmont Mining, J. Paul Getty, Enron, and the Lehman Brothers bankruptcy off the top of my head – some of my stuff may be wrong. If it is, I’m sorry. Also I have the financial background of an 10 year old, so sorry if my wiki skills are shoddy.
> 
> Fission is atom-splitting, so nuclear weapons shit. Fusion is atom-combined. Also explosive, but that’s more particle accelerator stuff. Now you know.
> 
> And no, Balin wasn’t kidding. Look up Operation Plowshare if you want to see nuclear stupidity at its finest.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, just to prepare y'all: this chapter drops two particularly bad swears for a brief moment: faggot and cunt. I do not advocate their usage to any degree and you'll see how.

 

* * *

" _Burglar_!?"

Gandalf let out a sigh. "Yes, Bilbo."

"You want me to come with you as a _burglar!?"_

The rest of the party had shuffled back into the kitchen and now picked off the last of the beer and soda. They broke off into groups of three and four, talking among themselves in amiable tones.

Bilbo, on the other fucking hand, was _not_ amiable. He was on the other side of the _world_ from amiable. Batshit crazy Santa stalking him (which he supposed was in the original Santa's job description)? Manageable. Gandalf bringing thirteen people waltzing in through his front door? Not ideal, but he could deal. A quest to go reclaim a mining company and clear the name of a family whose misfortunes rivaled those of a certain rotten state of Denmark? What the fuck ever. But asking Bilbo to join this circus? As a  _burglar_?

"On a scale of one to Mars, how high are you right now?"

"I'm running out of patience for people insulting my intelligence and level of consciousness.  _Yes,_  I am asking you this in all seriousness. I would be here if I were not in all seriousness."

Just then, a very loud strum of…guitar strings? reverberated from the kitchen, followed by a cheering roar.

 

> _Innnnnn the fourth of July eighteen hundred and six_  
>  We set sail from the sweet cove of Cork  
>  We were sailing away with a cargo of bricks  
>  For the grand city hall in New York…

"Believe it if you will," said Gandalf standing behind him, watching the merry scene with a contented smile, "but many of these folk have not seen each other for a decade at least. Some" – he pointed at Bofur who had his arms around the neck of Gloin – the apparent guitarist - while both men howled along to the folk song – "have just met tonight."

"…Huh."

 

> _We had one million bales of the best Sligo rags_  
>  We had two million barrels of stones  
>  We had three million sides of old blind horses hides,  
>  We had four million barrels of bones…

As the party went about singing and thumping in his kitchen, everyone was smiling so hard that Bilbo wondered who the lucky bride was. Not Nori, for Dwalin just about slugged him in the teeth just now for throwing his arm around the tattooed man's neck. Bilbo felt Nori's 'ooph!' echo in his  _own_  stomach.  _Ouch._

 

> _We had sailed seven years when the measles broke out_  
>  And the ship lost its way in a fog.  
>  And that whale of the crew was reduced down to two,  
>  Just meself and the captain's old dog.  
>  Then the ship struck a rock, oh Lord what a shock  
>  The bulkhead was turned right over  
>  Turned nine times around, and the poor dog was drowned  
>  I'm the last of the Irish Rover!

They all finished with a scream, clapping their hands and downing the last of their beers. Many of the men were guffawing uncontrollably while others simply grinned.

"If the Khuzdul people value one thing over mining and metalwork, it is family," remarked Gandalf with a crooked grin. He turned to Bilbo. "Would you like to know how I met your mother?"

"Oh, God, never repeat that sentence ever again, but sure. Why not."

"I was her travel agent for 15 years," said Gandalf.

"Ha!" sneered Bilbo, acting far braver than he felt. "Architect was more believable."

"I acted as  _her_ travel agent. For you see, Bilbo, I…am a contractor, of sorts. People contact me for the innumerable resources I have at my disposable, and I provide them with the according services. Belladonna Baggins contacted me as a travel agent because she wanted to go to East Germany – in 1980." He chuckled at the memory. "The last trip I ever arranged was a two-month-long venture into Peru, Chile, and Argentina."

"I remember that trip," gasped Bilbo. "But really, how do I know you're not pulling one over me again?"

For the first time that night, Gandalf replied without a word. He silently pulled out a small leather book and drew two papers from its contents. One was a worn and torn; picture of Belladonna Baggins in Peru, beaming from ear to ear. Gandalf didn't just steal that from a photo album in Bag-End; he had had that photo in there for a while. The other piece of paper was a folded-up card with a double-B embossed on the front.

Bilbo knew that double-B. And his heart suddenly took a moonshot into his throat as he read that familiar wobbly script:

 

> _Dear Mister Gandalf,_
> 
> _It is with great sadness that I must inform you that I must cancel the trip to Bosnia this February. I'm so terribly sorry for the inconvenience, but something else came up and I must attend to it before I go on any more adventures. For the time being, that is. You can count on a call the moment I'm well and ready to travel the world again. Have a merry Christmas, and I wish you all the joy in the world._
> 
> _With love,_
> 
> _Belladonna Baggins_
> 
> _December 1994_

Bilbo read the date, and read it again. His hands began to shake.

"The call came five months later, but it was not to reschedule Bosnia." Gandalf pressed his lips thin. "I paid her a visit in hospital, and she asked if I would look after her only son, when I could spare an eye or two. For he had gone through some rough times in college, and he may let himself become terribly lonely after she is gone."

The writer felt as though he had been standing too long in the snow.

"You've lived alone for far too long. This will be very good for you."

"I'm fine where I am, thank you very much"

"Bilbo." Gandalf looked at Bilbo. His blue eyes sparkled but not with merriment. "What would your mother say about you right now?"

...Goddamn his traitorous body, why did it have to stiffen? And fuck-all his heart started acting up too.

* * *

"Thorin."

He looked up from the manila folder he was flicking through to meet the silver-black hair of Balin. "What is it?"

"The burglar."

Thorin bit his lip and let out a grunt. "I know."

"Hardly stern stuff. I mean, sharp as a tack, feisty as a bat outta 'ell, but him as a burglar? What're the chances he'll panic when the going gets rough?"

"We'll tell him to pack extra pants."

"Thorin." That was her mother voice.

"Gandalf trusts him." He snapped shut the manila folders he'd been flipping through shut with more force than he intended. A long exhale escaped him. "And Gandalf will not let me bring anyone but him."

"You put a lot of stock in that man."

"And you know precisely why I do." He met her eyes with a fiery glare. "I've more reason to trust his judgment than not. Even if he does saddle us with this… _hobbit._ "

He pretended not to hear Balin's exasperated sigh.

"Thorin!" called someone from the kitchen. "Take a look at what we found."

The dark man grumbled and strode back into the kitchen – and stopped.

"Oh my word," fell from Balin's lips just as the burglar cried, "Oh hell no!"

* * *

"That is my father's very own Steinbach piano!"

"Yes and what a beauty she is," cooed Dori with reverent eyes.

"We found 'er while we were lookin' for the cellar," muttered Dwalin, wincing as he, Bifur, Gloin and Bofur shook out their arms. "Though' you might wanna have a go, your Majesty."

Bilbo almost squawked. "No! No! You can't just-"

But Thorin was deaf to the world, walking slowly towards the piano like a man transfixed. He had removed his suit jacket, revealing a pair of dark-haired forearms bulging with sinewy muscle and rough skin. As he sat down, his fingers – the very ones that nearly ripped Bilbo's arm off an hour ago - brushed the ivory keys with the delicacy you reserve for a kitten. And before Bilbo even had time to absorb the irony, Thorin stroked out a perfect G-major chord.

"Could use a tuning," murmured the dark man, though his eyes looked so mesmerized still that the tuning hardly seemed to bother him. 'Stunned' seemed too mild a word for Bilbo's state at that moment.

"When was the last time he played?" Bilbo heard Kili whisper to Balin.

"It's been years," she muttered back. "Most o' the places we shuffled him around to didn't have one, and those that did, well, he couldn't afford to make more sound than a peep."

However long it had been since Thorin last played the piano, it didn't matter, because in a flash, the man's hands were gliding over the Steinbach like a professional harpist plucking at a lyre. Beginning with a gentle, almost playful melody, the song morphed into a powerful thudding of chords that by all logic should not have sounded as good as it damn did.

It did not help when Mr. Tall Dark Semi King opened his mouth to sing.

 

> _Seen the lights go out on Broadway_  
>  I saw the Empire State laid low  
>  And life went on beyond the Palisades  
>  They all bought Cadillacs  
>  And left there long ago

His voice was a deep, spine-trembling bass that Bilbo felt all the way down to the tips of his goddamn toes.

 

> _They held a concert out in Brooklyn  
>  To watch the island bridges blow_

Gloin jumped right in with his guitar, bobbing his head with every chord he struck.

 

> (Strum)  _They turned our power down  
> _ (Strum) _And drove us underground  
>  But we went right on with the show..._

And the rhythm picked up to a driving pace, accompanied by the tinny twang of a harmonica played by…Dwalin?! Meanwhile, Bofur led the remainder of the audience in a rhythmic chorus of stomps and claps, who despite their whoopin' and hollerin' actually kept some pretty damn good time. Even Gandalf started clapping along, smiling like the old fool that he was. And before Bilbo knew it, he was watching a thirteen-man impromptu band perform in his kitchen, led by a man who worked that old piano like it was his life, soul, and goddamned job. Bilbo almost saw the hint of a smile.

But no way was Bilbo tapping his foot to the beat. No, absol-fucking-lutely not.

* * *

"Oy, Mister Baggins."

The party wound down by ten o'clock. It became pretty damn evident that there would be fourteen men and women sleeping on his downstairs floor that night, so he threw them all the spare blankets he could. Call it a departure gift. Whatever. Everything would be back to normal tomorrow.

Bofur, however, had not yet joined the others. He stood idly at the bottom of the stairs, twiddling a lighter between his blackened fingers, just as Bilbo was halfway up to his room,

"Hm?" hummed Bilbo, tired and ready to just go collapse into bed and wake up tomorrow to normality again.

"That thing ye did earlier, where ye read us all like books, that was goddamned brilliant." Bofur smirked at him, lifting his dark moustache with his lip.

Bilbo blinked. "Oh. Thanks."

"How'd ye do it?"

Bilbo honestly had no idea. "I'm a writer and a wallflower," he said with a shrug. "Leads to frequent people watching."

"Ye live alone then?"

"…Yeah."

Bofur let out a low whistle. "Damn…I dunno, this house seems mighty big for one person. Terribly lonely too."

* * *

The next thing he knew, Bilbo was lying in his bed and someone was pounding on his front door. Oh,  _not a-fuckin'-gain._

But rather than an jovial crowd of men and women shoving their way into his house, a bleary-eyed Bilbo was met with one very cold-eyed, very cross dark-haired woman.

"Lobelia," he muttered. Goddammit, why did he answer his door anymore?

"Bilbo," she said icily. It was a damn miracle his exhausted eyes couldn't focus properly. He might turn to stone if he did. "Oh, I'm sorry, did I wake you? Did I interrupt your sleep?"

"Most people tend to sleep at 3am, so yes."  _Except for you apparently, living evidence that evil never sleeps_.

"They also tend to sleep at 8 o'clock at night, but that didn't stop  _you_  at all, did it?"

 _Fuck-a-doodle-dandy._ The neighbors  _had_  heard the circus last night. However, it occurred to him that his house was surprisingly empty and clean, that any evidence of anyone else being there beside himself had long gone. "Whatcha takin' 'bout?" he mumbled.

 _Hold on a moment, why the fuck do I need to cover for fourteen trespassers and pantry raiders?_  No reason came to mind. Whatever, he hated Lobelia more than he hated them. And his hatred only intensified when he realized he was dealing with a witch without his morning coffee.

"Oh don't give me that!" she snapped. "My son has an extremely important biology test to take tomorrow-"

"Isn't Lotho in eight grade?"

"-and while he should have been studying in peace, he instead had to listen to the ridiculous  _orgy_  coming from your place!"

"I-  _What_?"

"Or whatever you  _faggots_  call it these days."

It was like someone had poured ice water beneath his skin. It filled his lungs, curled around his chest, squeezed him like iron bars. "I'm not…"

"Not what, a queer?" Her eyes flashed maliciously.

Words. Words. He tried to speak but more water filled his mouth, his nose. Bilbo buckled over, trying to get just a whiff of air into his lungs because  _he couldn't breathe_.  _He couldn't fucking breathe_.

"You do whatever the hell your…your  _type_ does." Her lips writhed like cockroach larvae. "But don't think you can inflict it on the rest of us proper folk!"

All of a sudden, the iron bars disappeared. Bilbo could breathe again. And what else did he do? He started to laugh.

Lobelia, on her part, looked like she just witnessed the devil reincarnated.

" _Proper folk_?" he sneered. There was nothing merry about his laughter; it was cutting and shrill, the laughter of a mad, hollow man who finally realized the rest of the world was mad too, as crazy as a cuckoo clock. "You,  _proper folk_? Oh, tell me all about this proper folk, because all I see is people who clink their glasses at parties and laugh and pretend everything's all fucking right while you sweep the bills under table and your children snort themselves to death and you down whiskey like it's fuckin' tap water to dull the pain. _Proper folk_? Tell me how much you pay your gardener keep you screaming while Otho's away, you slithering, two-faced  _cunt."_

Lobelia had turned white as death, her frame trembling with horror.

Bilbo suddenly became the most revolting creature he'd ever met.

He slammed the door in her face and wilted to the tile floor because  _shit shit shitty shit shit_  he had just used the only word his mother would have boxed his ears for saying because even though he meant every word before  _that one_ with every fiber of his tiny, cowardly, frail being, never ever ever  _ever_  should you say  _that goddamn word_  to anyone in the world no matter how evil or terrible or Lobelia-ish they were.

_What would your mother say about you at this moment?_

Shadow blanketed the foyer, but Bilbo could still make out two photographs on the wall: one of a very stern-looking man with sandy hair like Bilbo's own, and another of a dark-haired woman, her eyebrows arched and her lips curled into a mischievous grin.

_What would your mother say to you?_

Bilbo needed to go.

Not just because Lobelia would most certainly call the police on him (and they would come because what the fuck else did they have to do in Hobbiton?), but rather all of a sudden in a moment of crystal-sharp clarity, he realized that the thought of staying in this empty house in this plastic town for another  _hour_  made him want to upchuck the breakfast he hadn't even had yet.

_I need to go._

But where?

 

 

_What would your mother say..._

_Fuck._

It was 3:27 am.

_God-fucking-dammit._

* * *

"Almost done fillin' up, Thorin."

"We pull away in one minute," snapped Thorin. His companions, tired and hung-over, silently groaned, but one by one they started to pile in their respective cars.

"But," stammered Ori to Balin while the older woman screwed the gas cap on the Cadillac beater, "we don't have Mr. Baggins yet."

"So we don't," replied Balin. She snapped the gas lid with force than necessary.

Bofur, cheery as always, hopped into the front seat of the mini-van with one very, very hung-over Dwalin crawled clumsily into the passenger seat. In the back sat Bombur, Bifur, and Nori (much to Dwalin's displeasure). Bofur started taking requests for music.

Fili and Kili tried to sneak into the van but Thorin barred the door. "Like hell you're going in there."

"Why not?" protested Fili.

"Because you need adult supervision."

Adult supervision meant Dori, who took the wheel of the beige Toyota sedan. Ori climbed in beside him, her arms crossed in a glum expression. In the backseat sat Oin, twiddling with his barely-useful hearing aid, while Fili and Kili climbed in on either side of him. They looked at Oin, then looked at each other with impish grins.

"G!" shouted Thorin at the road. There at the curb stood Gandalf in his fishing jacket, peering out at the dark with a smile that was becoming more habitual than genuine.

"I will meet you at the first checkpoint in 18 hours time," the old man replied sharply. His blue rental car stood parked on the other side of the gas pump from the convoy.

Thorin nodded, and then trudged to the Cadillac beater and took the driver's seat. Beside him sat Balin, bearing a ghost of a grin. A snoring Gloin sniffed in the backseat.

"You ready?" murmured the salt-and-pepper-haired woman.

The rumbling of the old engine was Thorin's wordless reply.

"WAIT!"

Fourteen heads - Gandalf's included - snapped towards the road. Just down the street, a bike was hurtling towards the gas station, carrying a red-faced, bedraggled man pedaling as fast as his little legs could.

Thorin let out a grumbling exhale. In the rearviw mirror, Dwalin clapped his hands to his ears with a snarl as the cheers erupted from the mini-van.

Bilbo pulled up alongside the caravan and all but fell off his bike. "Sorry- I'm late-" he gasped. An over-sized backpack slipped off his shoulders onto the ground. "Just packed- had to bike- all the way here-  _fuck,_ I'm tired!" He buckled over his knees and took rasping breaths.

"Didn't think you were coming at all," growled a red-eyed Dwalin who had rolled down his window.

"Neither- did I." Bilbo wheezed a laugh. "But I called- my neighbor a cunt- this morning- so I'm kinda-  _whoo!_  on the run."

Thirteen pairs of eyes blinked at him. Gandalf simply beamed.

The slam of a car door. Thorin stalked over to Bilbo -  _Christ, he was tall -_ and for a while he simply looked at writer with a stone-melting glare. "What did you pack?" he finally said, arching an eyebrow at the lumpy backpack lying at Bilbo's feet

"Clothes, books, phone-"

"Throw away the phone. And the books."

"What, no!"

"We're not taking any chances with tracking."

Bilbo huffed. "Fine. Phone can go." His voice was still wheezy. "But the Burglar comes with books. No books, no burglar. Take it or fuckin' leave it."

Gandalf did his very best to stifle a grin. Thorin took a deep, long breath, as if trying to suppress the urge to punch Bilbo straight out of his shoes. But Bilbo stood there strong and proud; his last fuck to give had scuttled away with Lobelia this morning. Or he was too fucking terrified to move.  _Fuck it all._

"Fine," the semi-king finally growled. "We've lost enough time because of you already."

 _How very welcoming of you, McBroodyPants._  "The bike comes too."

" _Rakhas_ ," spat the dark man at the ground, his hands curling into fists before he slammed his car door shut. But hey, Bilbo didn't hear a 'no.'

Five minutes later, after Bilbo's bike was strapped to the roof of the van, the convoy rolled away, westward bound. Except for a minor turn-around, where Bilbo directed them to the road that was actually westward bound.

Gandalf waved them off with a chuckle before he climbed into a blue sedan. Now he had a rental car to return, a flight to catch, and a burglar to look out for.

The quest had begun.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANND WE'RE OFF MUTHAFLUFFAS 
> 
> 1\. I will unlikely be using those swears ever again. Mostly because we won't run into someone like Lobelia again (for better or for worse).
> 
> 2\. Songs were "The Irish Rover," a common Irish drinking song, and "Miami 2017" by Billy Joel. Thorin seems like a Billy Joel-kinda-guy.
> 
> Thanks y'all for reading! Can't wait for this shitshow to get on the road!


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